What the heart of the old man said to Longfellow
Enough with urgent life
And its attendant ceaseless speed
To rush is nature's knife:
What grows the quickest is a weed.
A life well-lived is long
Although it may be few in years.
Some passion is not wrong,
But be not driven by your fears.
The greatest tragedy
Is not a day without crusade
But acting carelessly
And hurting those you meant to aid.
In triumph hide your face
For praise and fame are empty wells
And deeds of deepest grace
Are seldom cheered or sung by bells.
The greatest of us all
Forget themselves and their own ends
Instead they heed the call
Of lonely souls and aching friends.
This way of being kind
Deprives the ego of its breath
Which frees and helps the mind
To live each day prepared for death.
The dust can be our guide:
It moves where God and wind command
And with this airy tide
Escapes our ever-grasping hand.
To thus elude the strain
Of acting, doing day by day
As strength and power wane
Will be the end of life's decay:
Let go of pride and lust
And let vain glory rave and burn
For we all, too, are dust
And unto dust we shall return.